


Games

by nahco3



Series: Three Words [4]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-29
Updated: 2011-08-29
Packaged: 2017-10-23 05:39:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nahco3/pseuds/nahco3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a game Silva likes to play with himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Games

**Author's Note:**

> written in 2009, originally posted to my lj.

There’s a game Silva likes to play with himself. He likes to sit next to David and gently, slowly, (almost) deliberately, lets their knees touch.

David looks at him - startled except he isn’t, he’s David fucking Villa and nothing gets to him, but his eyes widen in a good approximation of surprise. Silva smiles at him apologetically and moves his knee.

Silva waits, forces himself to stay as still as possible. He can feel David next to him, coiled in on himself, unreadable and unstoppable. David drops an arm over Silva’s shoulder, not casually, not anything but deliberately. He doesn’t look at Silva, so Silva can only see half his smile, gentle with disappointment, or maybe Silva just imagines it.

David’s arm is warm, deceptively solid. Silva leans his head back, just a little bit, against David and rests there.

“Hey,” he says, softly, as if this was accidental.

David snorts; he doesn’t see the point to games he can’t win. He bends his arm and runs his hand through Silva’s hair – a gesture that would be intimate if it weren’t possessive, if David would meet Silva’s eyes.

And then Silva leans in a little closer, stops holding himself back, pretends he stops pretending. David whips around and pulls his arm out from behind Silva, then kisses him, wide eyes and all. David lets Silva hold on, one hand on the back of his neck, one arm around his slim waist, but he rests his hands on the wall behind Silva.

Silva pushes his hands under David’s shirt, trying to provoke David into retaliation. It works. David pushes Silva against the wall, bites at his neck. He has to lean back, briefly, to pull his shirt off. His eyes flash dark.

“David,” Silva says, quiet as he can. David leans in again Silva says his name again. And then, “I lo -”

David’s shoulders tighten, and then his hands are grasping bruises into Silva’s hips, biting them onto his collar bones. Whether this is punishment or thanks Silva doesn’t know and doesn’t care.

David fucks him. Of course that’s not all, David’s hands are rough, but his eyes aren’t, though Silva is too far gone to appreciate this intimacy, accidentally shown.

They lie next to each other, not quite touching, and Silva feels cold. David’s gone back to not looking at him, and is staring at the ceiling instead. His breathing is shallow. Silva curls in next to him and David accepts the touch almost uncertainly.

“Are you ok?” Silva asks, quietly.

David rolls his eyes. “Never better,” he says, all contempt. Silva doesn’t believe him, and rests his lips on David’s pulse, almost a kiss.

There’s a game Silva likes to play with himself. He likes to count the different ways they can hurt each other, to track each bruise and each swallowed word.

Because when David gets up, showers and leaves – leaves Silva aching and alone – Silva knows that David fingers his rosary as he unlocks his car door, looks back, drives away too fast. Cares.


End file.
